In some unauthorised mass media
critiques of Moon Fog Prophet's works there has been indications that the band's
art is somehow 'not perfect'. To set things right we have decided to release
the Official Critique of band's Oeuvre. Thus the reviewers can easily check,
how direfully misguided their judgements in effect are or have been. Moreover,
now the fans can quite nicely verify their own appraisals of Moon Fog Prophet's
magnificent handiwork.

I
Crackle as I Grow

As the 20th century began to turn
towards its end, something momentous was bound to happen. And it happened. There
occurred a scintillating instance of artistic power, as Moon Fog Prophet launched
their debut recording.

The first product of a band is always a kind of trial by fire. Right away, from
the first bars on, the band shows that they have a sublime sense of justice
and their share of fireworks to boot. This record is not in the slightest way
tentative or timid, debut-like. On the contrary: Moon Fog Prophet's frontal
attack is glorious - and the victory unequivocal.

Every nuance is carefully thought out and realised. Skilfully they enchant the
listener and in the process show what is to be expected in the future. For all
aspects of Moon Fog Prophet's astounding art are already present, in full bloom.
The rabid eruptions of power, the tranquil moments of rest and philosophical
musings: everything is here, in a structured balance, in a firm hold. The voices
speak - the fulmination cracks. The surface of their sonic ocean is sometimes
dead calm, sometimes in the grip of a storm force ten. And as the going gets
tough, a sudden aural whirlwind comes and drives the sullen clouds away: so
a joyous sun may once again shine.

As the vinyl turns to its end, it is altogether evident that from their trial
by fire the mighty Prophet's emerge stately, though not plump.

Dim
Dum Sing the Sun

There are people who may say, that
a person who has contributed massively to a piece of art - indeed been a co-producer
of a kind - should declare an interest. But that's nit-picking. And petty-minded
at that. For who knows better what lies in a product than one of its producers?
So there should be absolutely no grievances about the completely objective,
disinterested and insightful review that is to follow. When a gentleman knows
profoundly what he is talking about, it is everyone's foremost duty to listen.

The first Moon Fog Prophet album is sheer milk and honey. Everything is stoic,
i.e. disciplined, austere and eloquent - like Marcus Aurelius and his manly
writings. The guest starring Monolith master Mika Paunu's amazing sound wizardry
hails the sun, the moon and all those heavenly bodies that dance inside and
about the cosmic drama. The band plays like a cosmic dynamo and the raw rapid
of creativity on the whole runs riot. It is thoroughly clear that here we have
a group of renaissance men, the men of distinguished honour and virtú.
Their every step is solid, every climbable peak reached and conquered: they
do not falter in any move they make. The astral voices within the aural scenery
speak the language of freedom.

This is dramatic performance par excellence and without a doubt one of
the enduring masterworks of the 20th century. Pertaining this it is our sad
obligation to remind what one misjudging critic wrote about this album. He said
that it sounds like 'Peter Hammill in a grocery store.' Well, in matters of
taste one should remain silent if all that comes out is fruitless juxtaposition
and blatant business vulgarity. For there are sublime birds that fly much too
high for a narrow-minded reviewer - who evidently lives in the stolid world
of mass entertainment - to see. Indeed, it is as plain as pie that the band
is already mature enough to meet all the necessary requirements without any
ill-advised hair-splitting tracking their glorious, trailblazing ride. The fabulous
spinning cousins and their comrades in arms surely are aware of the fact Montaigne
stated like this: 'The greatest thing in the world is to know how to be sufficient
unto oneself.' They also happen to know something about true Platonic love,
as the charming song in question strongly indicates. So it is the unauthorised
reviewers who should raise their level of performance, not the band.

If we must mention one track that at the very outset represents the quintessential
Moon Fog Prophet, it should be La Danza dei Cavalièri Smeraldi.
In this sturdy instrumental we have featured all that is relevant in their art:
the supple leaps of lucid sensitivity, forceful outbursts of Dionysian will
and the symphonic depth that breathes underneath and above it.

Anyway you slice it, Moon Fog Prophet's brilliant debut album hovers like a
halcyon in the blue sky of our innermost yearnings.

When
They Opened Their Parachutes... Silence

The same caveat applies here as
in the previous critique: no caveats are needed.

So, this album is utterly crisp - Epicurean. Perhaps it is some kind of an instinct
of serendipity that makes it able for Moon Fog Prophet to hit the nail every
time they pick the hammer up? As it were a fortuitous way of finding what one
is searching for - a second sight of the first rank? Who knows?

To hell with these meaningless metaphysical questions! The solemn Starling surely
knows where she moves, and as to the wicked Miss Curwin's toys, every single
soul is completely aware that a pathetic scoundrel called Jimmie Kane stole
them and sold his rotten loot to abject sadomasochists of the North Pole.

The stupid story above is of course complete nonsense concocted by the distinguished
critic as artist, but the music and lyrics of the album are not. The calm grandeur
of the icy, supernatural Starling leaves nothing unexplained. It is measure
and harmony that are at work here. Even in Miss Curwin's surreal toys. And oh
how these toy soldiers do their share!

The composure of this work is something that defies expression. It is so rewarding
to plunge into the bracing water of this album time and again. The sense of
proportion is right there on the spot. This piece of work is very Hellenic,
extremely classical. There is sap of course, and even quite a bit of thunder
and lightning. Moreover, there are some plaintive chords that belong to any
noble character. But all these elements throbbed also under Athenian skin, tan
and ticklish, tight and trim. Those were the days! And if you want to send a
telegram to your Star Neighbour in the lovely garden of Epicurus, remember that
the right address is not far from your sapient heart.

MERN3336
- A Mirror to the Marble-Coated Solar System

The same caveat applies here as
before: there still is no reason for any sanctimonious caveats. So on with the
dirty work!

Dauntless as ever, the band tackles the challenge of their lives: for this is
truly an ambitious enterprise. Moon Fog Prophet is set out to do the impossible
- with recording equipment of the cheapest kind they are to accomplish the task
of truly monstrous proportions. Some might even say that their career as serious
musicians is at stake here. But no matter what, they make it with flying colours.
And what comes out is pure gold. The psychedelic album of the century is here.
Never before has the world experienced anything like this. This is the earthquake
of the millennium. Moon Fog Prophet verily has made the grade and as serious
musicians and artists they remain for sure. But of course with a characteristic
Rinàscita-twinkle in their eye.

So why don't we simply let the übermenschlich king of Atlantica
have the last word? Well, perhaps we should not, for he is a nasty kind of a
bloke, not at all the overman he purports to be. Fortunately the Magnum Opus
stands quite well all by itself - and so does this succinct, all too succinct
critique.

In any case, as the scarlet sun of MERN solar system sets behind the infinite
horizon on one of its giant planets - bringing restless, misty sleep to the
Lemon Lady and Silicon Boy - the mighty river of Doreen is absolutely still.

Taunting
Tin Bells Through the Mammal Void

This album is a soundtrack for
a play - a play about the Duke of Immorality. This naughty guy lives inside
us all, so it comes as no shock to meet him tête-à-tête.
Actually it is very pleasant to meet the bugger in broad daylight. 'Nice to
meet you sir, nice to meet you.' So much for the meaningless discussions with
oneself! Or half of it!

In this album Moon Fog Prophet reaches a climax of their creativity in English.
This is their Rubicon, the point of no return. As you may have noticed, there
are many rivers flowing or not flowing in these splashy critiques. That of course
is no coincide, for whoever seeketh shall find. There is even more water music
to come. For the critics - like Christians - do like liquidity in their poorly
paid work of baptising, at least in the morning.

There are several masterpieces of progressive rock featured on this soundtrack,
especially Morning Evening. It is absolutely impossible to write a song better
than that. And once again, if we take a sweeping view of things, there is no
sign of any pedestrian tediousness on this album - the artwork is pure, complex
and pithy. It is incredible how they do it but here it is, namely, the fulfilment.
After this, all they can do is change the language for keeps. So is it immoral
to say good riddance?

All in all, the rest, again, is history. We, as any large, omnivorous mammals
that have figured out the scheme of evolution, should know it by now.

Kukin
kaappiaan selässään kantaa (To Bear Your Closet on Your Back)

Still waters run deep like the
river of oblivion. However, instead of oblivion, this Arcadian River of charming
weight runs straight unto luminance. But its waters are deep for certain. The
river implied is of course the icy stream of Life. For Life itself, in all Nature's
beauty and sorrow, lies at the heart of this album - the band's first in Finnish.
So it is the river out of Eden, and not very still like the one of Doreen at
night, for it is the stormy current of Art. And how supple it is, how light!
But not so fast my friends, not so fast, for haste makes waste.

The supple gait entails a mystery; the light tread raises questions. How can
it be, that at the same time this album reaches out with brilliance and gravity?
How on earth did they do it? Whence the noble irony, the paradox of graceful
weight?

The mystery is revealed as the journey reaches its end. The sprightly mood of
a youngster is gradually turned into the solemn pageantry of a grown-up. The
Omega point of human condition is the gravity of life. And oh how light is this
weight! The Life's artist in Moon Fog Prophet's gallery is a buffoon, the master
of chiaroscuro, marionette of chance and history. Nature is the artist. Her
mocking self-portrait lies at the heart of things, like an eagle that perches
on her summit, watchful, alert. Framed as man's everlasting enigma, the bleak
portrait of being is hung above nothingness.

You ask where the answer hides, but nobody will tell you. Because of that you
have to listen very carefully and learn - all by yourself. For it is not child's
play to fly like an eagle, to lie like a master. The master is an eagle, and
the eagle is a master. And here's a free piece of advice for those who dare
not go out to the forest, to stroll on the shore, to paint themselves: at least
try to catch an inkling of the liberating dream within this wild, wintry wind.

Some self-styled daredevils or
idle coffee-shop scribblers may venture to assert that this album - like the
previous one - represents the calmer side of Moon Fog Prophet's expression.
However, that would be a totally misplaced remark. For though there certainly
is elegiac sadness and peacefulness in the songs featured, there lie some mighty,
exultant undertones also. Underneath the limpid beauty of the surface hides
a pulsating magma, which at times cannot keep at rest, bur comes forth with
a vengeance.

These restrained bursts of adamant power show the exuberant side of band's music
and they do it with style. For the use of uncompromising force presupposes witty
playfulness in matters artistic. As Nietzsche said, 'It is the stillest words
which bring the storm, thoughts that come on doves' feet guide the world.' Oh
yes, they make it for sure. And Moon Fog Prophet makes it just like that.

The dark streamlet that runs beneath the tinkling solemnity whispers like the
timid gait of a chamois, which traverses the moonlit alpine meadow in pure grace
and solitude. Here lies the luminosity, the crystalline air of redemption.

With an infallible sense of tragic art, with steadfast gusto, the band
conquers the auditor's heart of trembling expectance. Every listening experience
enriches the innermost soul of this album; every drop of magic they conjure
is a pure delight. Here we have a progressively increasing luxury, a diamond
piece of art that is unfathomed, and yet so close, so familiar. Here we recognise
our heart, our most secret hopes and fears. No longer are they hidden from us,
for the illuminating purity of Moon Fog Prophet's sonic sky is a revelation
of human nature in its own class.

And as the weary superhero fades into the cold, nonchalant night, the listener
sighs once again with sublime gratification, and hums his own rhapsody to this
sovereign art.

There should be no doubt about
it: this album verily is an immaculate masterpiece of epic-heroic style - i.e.
higher style. The onerous and taxing way of tackling things featured in this
work is impossible for mere weekend strummers and mediocre pseudo-poets to attain.
And as Moon Fog Prophet evidently is not, and never has been, in thrall of these
petit bourgeois deficiencies, everything here speaks of taste. The hardy, self-assured
disposition of their artistic aspirations, their Homeric intransigence, has
produced an unbelievable plenitude of strong musical expression, which rumbles
on like a shock wave from the deep.

But alas, because of the gargantuan powers unleashed, this work is not for the
faint-hearted ones. The same goes without saying to those who are friends of
spiritless top-ten list rubbish - and to all kinds of besserwissers as
well. Whereas to those who know what it's like to dance on the edge of an abyss
- e.g. from being an old acquaintance of the band - the stalwart pugnacity of
this album comes as no bête noire; nor as a display of immature
pomposity, as one sorry, misguided reviewer said. Truly, to those who know how
to cherish the taste of strong medicines of all sorts, this triumphant exposition
with its volcanic eruptions of artistic ingeniousness brings forth a shivering
recollection - a pleasant recollection of life's hardships and hard-won victories.
Indeed, to those resilient spirits who already know what love and life is the
verve of this album comes as familiar effulgence that invigorates, galvanises
and rejuvenates. To those who are young and restless, the sheer Spartan perseverance
of these songs comes as necessary breeding, as discipline. Ultimately, this
album teaches how to forget, while it educates. Both ends are met at the same
time, with perfect economy, efficacy and precision.

Like the crystalline austerity of an Anton Webern composition, the beauty of
Moon Fog Prophet's wild art soars aristocratically through the lucid February
sky. There are moments of tranquillity for certain, and rapturous, evensong-like
fragility too - but the relaxing float on these smooth waters shall be rewarded
bountifully, for soon after the repose new mountains arise, convulsing the aural
earth with their stony majesty. Love may still await the grey boulders of strength,
but in the end the magnanimity of characters portrayed is so enormous that the
waiting pays. There is absolutely no sign of knights of the rueful countenance
or other miserable failures in this rugged terrain. Instead, before our wide
eyes gallops the fearsome blond beast in all his gore and thunder.

The stupidity of warring human animal is lavishly, brutally portrayed, and yet
without any moral indignation or exasperation. Instead the dark heritage of
our evolutionary past is handled with subtle, sympathetic cynicism. And all
of a sudden, inside the proud, raging warrior, we meet the lonely man on the
moon, the unwitting jester with bitter tears, completely naked - i.e. one hundred
percent human - in his mindless historical strivings.

It is obvious that with this massive tour de force of noble battle hymns,
Moon Fog Prophet is after something much more crucial than just making their
fans and friends happy. Ultimately, the band says, our destiny lies in our own
hands. There are no gloomy, wrathful gods, nor ethereal angels or spirits to
command and guide us; it is we - human beings, flesh and blood - who must face
the challenge and end the violent, myopic insanity. Regarding the dilemma of
heroism involved in this quest for peace the album's message is obvious: in
the process we should not abandon our dignity, our greatness. Come what may,
we must not lose our profundity. We must not let ourselves degenerate into indolent,
grazing herd animals. However, on this point one must also add, that certainly
there are no room for Rousseau-like pastorals in real life. These ridiculous
scenes are only simplistic self-deception of life-weary romantics.

Fortunately - despite the brute fact that we are what we have evolved to be
- there is plenty of hope in the grand mission concerning our self-overcoming.
For, as Aeschylus noted in his Agamemnon: 'Wisdom cometh by suffering.'
Suffered we have and suffer we must - hence, wise we must gradually become.
When all things necessary are said and done, we can rest assured that in the
great feast of existence, there are only winners.

Moon Fog Prophet's valiant exploration into the terrifying inland of Homo
sapiens culminates in Garden of the Bygone Wonderland, which sums up this
glorious album's torrential themes in most graceful, sensible and humane way.
And as the hero's fires kindle, striking like love after the blood-soaked battle
of ultima spes, the artistic wonderland is accomplished by Moon Fog Prophet
and gained by the astonished, purified listener. This sublime experience par
excellence - the arcane emotion that hides in the heart of every great tragedy
- is, following Aristotle, called catharsis. Ecce Homo!

Never before has anything like this been heard on this planet. Sorry - on this universe. The cosmic balance has shifted permanently. It has shifted towards the Prophetic Truth. And there it will remain. Astronomers all around the world have informed the news channels that strange messages and codes coming from space have been captured. One of them said that at the farthest reach of cosmos, with their ultra-sensitive state-of-the-art high-tech probes, some turbo-intelligent aliens had detected a massive universal gravity centre of pure, bristling, blossoming ingenuity. The hot spot in question was in Vuosaari, Helsinki, Finland - or, more to the point, in Hästholmen - on October 2005. And oh my, at that time Moon Fog Prophet just happened to be at Hästholmen, cutting the album under review here. The disturbance in the cosmic order lasted for ten days. After that, it was detected occasionally in Tampere. One isn't surprised to hear the name of the place where the Prophets continued their album sessions - Tampere! Surely this can't be a coincidence. And we know it isn't. The colossal ingenuity in Tampere appeared to be an order of magnitude smaller than in Hästholmen, so obviously there were some integral parts missing. And yet it was colossal. But you won't notice this listening to the final product. Indeed it is clear that the all-encompassing spirit of the missing individuals was in Tampere too. You can hear it in the mix. It's impeccable, immense - one for all and all for one. You don't need absurdities like telepathy or stupid musketeer stories to explain these phenomena. All it takes is a super-gargantuan load of giftedness, vision, endurance, hard work, manliness and discipline.

There is a scientific formula capturing the exponential growth of group genius. This holds for any Prophetic Community, but sorry to say, there can be only one. The team working on this album is much, much more than the sum of its parts. Indeed, the Prophetic ingenuity is a continuous stereophonic function, nothing additive, nothing monotonic. You need higher mathematics and statistical wizardry to grasp this inescapable fact, this inevitable law of nature. Mere calculus won't do. The formula we are talking about can be conceptualised in the following fashion (you can skip this part if mathematics isn't your cup of tea):

Those who can handle the math can easily see that the endowment coefficient
is the key. The ingenuity is multiplied exponentially as the mass of gifted
individuals grows. Every individual mega-genius added to the equation not only
skyrockets the sum total, but also shoots the growth out of the orbit and out
of the grasp of standard human reason. In other words: nothing new under the
sun. Except for this new album. As already stated, the concentration of pure
genius on this work of art is something that the world has never seen or heard
before. Now, there still may be some poor dudes, shrouded in their intellectual
inertia and wilful underdevelopment, who say that a person who is among the
factors - the key factors - comprising the gravity centre of the sparkling
inventiveness that the aliens detected with their super-acute equipment during
October 2005 in Helsinki, should declare an interest. That, of course, is bullshit.
The critic as artist and as a member of the majestic collective under review
knows, and indeed is one hundred percent sure, that he is as objective as a
man can be. This is imbedded in his scientific attitude. There can't be one
without the other. The ability to criticise properly, justly, implies scientific
spirit. So let's cut the crap and look what kind of a sovereign masterpiece
we have here.

The opening track He Who Never Was is about a mysterious man who didn't exist, although people thought he did. So was he actually a ghost? Or just a ghost of a name? We'll never now. In the beginning of this gem we hear an atonal choir, not very angelic, but demonic. These diabolical verses represent the old cosmic order, the balance that the Prophets and the non-existing adventurer the song portrays now have destroyed, exploded, buried. The army of immortal artists has marched on and the trail is horrifying, or delightful, depending on which side you are. The universal gravitation centre now resides in the Prophetical region. There it will remain for the following millennia, perhaps even longer, perhaps forever. Who, in the end, cares? Mr. Harri Kerko is the composer genius behind this sonic revolution, and nothing whatsoever can ever match his masterwork. As the band kicks in, anticipated by the musing, reciting renaissance virtuoso Mr. Rättö, the rest is not silence but sheer force. Suffice to say that the spirit of Hästholmen lingers on within this piece: the delicate spirit of birds, nature, sea, nights and sauna. The naked old firs and young, strong, healthy, beautiful bodies, some ancient forest banshees and a horrifying monster dog, here you can hear them all. These entities sing - and we dance to their music. Although the song is about death, contest and toil, underneath its melancholy veneer there runs a deeper current of hope - and hope of course is the essence of life itself. What we have left behind is simply this. Those who have fallen in the middle of their journey don't mind. Neither do we. Still, this song is for them. Take it or leave it - piecemeal or whole. It is the puzzle itself that speaks here, not the pieces. Listen in awe and rejoice.

Much nonsensical quibble has been going on ever since the Mighty Prophet Gods and their comrades in arms appeared on this earth. Some people feel frightened because of the huge superpowers of the Prophetical geniuses. But there's no need to be afraid. We are nice chaps, and Illu is a truly jovial lassie. Jenni too. Sorry feminists: no equality in numbers here. But despite our Hellenic masculinity, most of the guys can be freely thought of as asexual, bisexual, queer, or whatever, just like the ancient Greeks who are ideal vacuous dream objects for the projection of vain ideals of modernity, so the band is not as hetero-normative as it may appear to the uninitiated. Remember Freddy Mercury and the spinning cousins. This may be cold comfort, but comfort it is. Anyway, we value manly virtues, and liberal stance toward women's follies is among them. But in science we won't make any allowances. We of course know the truth. The other side of the coin of our chivalrous warrior attitude is that we are strangers on this earth, wandering in the mist of mediocrity, vulgarity and foolishness. You can hear some of this ineluctable confusion on the album, but of course not in the dynamite, diamond-sharp songs and sounds themselves. Our hopeful pessimism of strength, our happiness in destruction and creation, our relentless tolerance, lies within the aural landscape, within the quantum fields, hidden in the deep structure of astonishing intellectual and artistic power. Hence the art featured is only a rough cut, an approximation of the exuberance and superabundance of life, but the implicate order holds and the work itself is absolute, immaculate. Once again, it's in the spirit, in the passion. The true artistic vision never fails, but nonetheless it always seeks. How can you mortals stand this kind of a philosophy? Despite the dangers involved, we ask you to join us. Tread lightly - even though there's no pale lady under the snow. Grope and kneel. Incomprehension can be overcome. You, with us, the lords of creation, shall prevail.

Autumn it was and what a jolly time it was - autumn time! There were shades, tawny, brown and crimson, and Jysky, smelling the decaying soil with his old muzzle. A bit disoriented he was, but right on the spot. The protagonists found a glass doll on the rocks and what a doll it was! An autumn doll? The nights were shrouded in the scent of burning firewood. The atmosphere was haunting, legendary. Everyone involved knew we were making history. In the sealed rooms the electrical equipment throbbed with energy. The notes penetrated the weary twilight; the microphones captured the island and the sky - as well as the power. The hard disk never failed; everything is there, wide-awake. The horses have fled, but their memory lingers on. Jysky guards the past - and the present. No evil here. Just mastery. It's there.

Bath Full of Tears deserves our attention too. The fragile and yet powerful ambience of this song gained sensitivity from the late night flames - our magician-like producer Mr. PEP the Great was responsible for this bristling spark of invention. As the band played in the dusk, the demons fled the artists' righteousness. Despite this, the lady of the song is a true fiend. She has gone, once again, and yet she's here. Men never learn - their carnal desire is much too strong. The fire of love never fades, but merely passes. Mr. Mertanen told us some nasty stories, but they were mostly about hockey players, jazz-freaks, forest dwellers and artists. And what about the gruesome lady? Away she dances, away into the rainy night. So, once again, she has gone. Alas, the tears remain.

The sentinels are awake as we speak. The bonfires are still burning somewhere, indoors, outdoors. The call of Cthulhu cuts the night. Someone will always be at the sauna, in the sauna. You'll also notice a passing übermensch bellowing in the woods. Actually the man is among us, with us - even loved by us. This warrior of melody, the artist of agony, will later purify his tormented soul in the steel-cold ocean. On the last day, he'll sleep. And it shall be good. You know the guy; you can hear him everywhere. You know his name. He's ubiquitous.

The trumpet, the saxophone, forwards, backwards, the magic; this island holds our hearts. There was a bird inside the tired palace, a great tit. The poor being couldn't find his way out. It was a male. You can distinguish the sexes easily. We left the window open and he found his way out. The bird lives near the villa, guarded by Jysky and other mighty beasts. The harbour of the smiling ships shall be here forever: the pines, the figs, the thousand stories left untold.

Can you believe that Valentine broke our heart too? Oh yes she did. Conceptually this is easy to comprehend, for any odd student of sociobiology will know that this is exactly what young women do; they steal the love of men, they woo, betray, sneak away and smile. They are so cynical! Just like their mothers. They eat sausage too. And they love chocolate. Exotic, erotic, empty. Girls.

Binary sainthood excluded, we are not fully satisfied. This of course doesn't refer to the artwork at hand, but to the future, to the hunger. There shall always be a man for our memories, as the hours turn into minutes. Your old legs won't take you very far, but nonetheless your walking seems pretty nice. Our too. It's the iron rule within the concept of being. They call it maturity, virtue, spirit.

To conclude, we have to remind you of the hat and the compass. The captain is insane, but valiant. His head may currently be under the surface, but there's life beneath the waves too. He can hold his breath for centuries if necessary. And as to the discharged, titanic sound waves, we can promise that you'll hear more of them very soon. Just disregard the wretchedly raped holy nun for the time being. No rest for the wicked. No rest for the rest of us either.